


Fall On The World Before It Falls On You

by turnyourankle



Category: 504 Plan, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Early Days, M/M, Tour Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-31
Updated: 2007-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:40:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4824098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnyourankle/pseuds/turnyourankle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Early 2004, Fall Out Boy take 504 Plan with them on tour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall On The World Before It Falls On You

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to lovebashed for the cheerleading and speedy beta, and for kicking my ass when I needed it. Written for the Fic Imitates Life challenge, prompt was "Good Things" by Sleater-Kinney. I feel like I strayed from the request a bit, so very sorry for that, but the fic got a life of its own :X

Jon wakes up with a jerk, a sudden honking sound reverberating through his body, and a slap on his left side, from Tom. Nick and they are the only remaining people in the van. Tom furrows his brows, eyes still closed, and he yawns. "We're up, we're up," he says, as he finally opens his eyes and attempts to sit up, putting all his weight on Jon while doing so. Tom's warm, and Jon closes his eyes again, internal snooze button kicking into gear at the warm breath against his forehead.  
  
There's a soft thud of someone hitting their head in the van ahead, and laughter billows sharply from outside, "Isn't the hair supposed to protect you from shit like that?" follows, in Pete's voice. There's a faint string of curses and Joe appears from behind the silhouette of the van. His hands are buried in the pockets of his jeans, and he rests his head against the car window, making faces at whoever's still in there. Patrick enters Jon's field of vision, thick green jacket and scarf wrapped around his neck and half of his face, white puffs of breath making a trail in the air.  
  
"What time is it, fuckers," Nick mumbles from somewhere next to Tom as his limbs unfold, one feet gracefully landing on the pavement. The whine from the car horn re-emerges, the sound even more piercing when awake. "Mikey! You can stop honking now, Jesus."  
  
"Six," Pete says, grin still in place, and rubs the palms of bare hands together. He can't have been outside for more than five minutes, and his fingers are already turning red.  
  
Nick stretches his arms over his head, the hem of his shirt riding up and revealing his pale belly. "There must be someone I can wake up," he says, cracking his knuckles.  
  
"I believe I have a list lying around somewhere," Pete says and grins.  
  
"Excellent. I would tip my hat at you if I was wearing it," Nick says, rolling the weight from his heel to the ball of his foot. "It's a little chilly, isn't it?"  
  
Pete digs his hands into Patrick's jacket pockets, and rests his head on Patrick's padded shoulder as Patrick reads what's left of the tour itinerary. Halfway point, and they're all alternatively functioning at half speed and warp speed. Right now, Jon feels more like a fourth of his usual self. The flecks of snow on the sidewalk are too bright for him to look at, and Pete and Nick's enthusiasm is draining him even more. Patrick speaks up, "Right, so, back at Port Authority at 6 pm."  
  
Pete covers his mouth with his hand and says with mock authority, "Everybody in favor say, aye!" A disharmonious choir of Aye's resonates, and Jon's forced to actually get out of the van. He squints at all the leftover Christmas decorations lined up over Tom's head as Jon follows him out onto the washed out street.  
  
  
.  
  
  
  
Tom finds a diner for them to sit in, and he makes a list – using the waitress's pencil, and a pink napkin – of things to do in the twelve hours they have free. Tom needs to buy more polaroid film, wants to go see a photography exhibit, a shower, some books; Jon stops paying attention after that. The only thing he can think of wanting is a place to charge his ipod, and Tom scribbles that down before Jon has a chance to mention it.  
  
"Refill?" Jon's cup is half-full before he even notices the waitress bending over the table and pouring in more. She looks more tired than he feels, eyes and rings under them matching the color of the sidewalk. She's halfway to the next table by the time he manages to mutter a thank you.  
  
"I think we should go make snow angels." Tom stops scribbling and smiles, bemused. How he manages to be so in control of himself this early is a mystery to Jon.  
  
Tom says, "I don't think there's nearly enough snow for that anywhere." But he adds 'make snow angels' to the list, straggly handwriting making the g and k twice as tall as the other letters. Jon lets a smile bloom across his face, and tangles his legs with Tom's under the table.  
  
.  
  
  
  
The things Jon looks forward to the most, aside from the thirty minutes he gets to be on stage, are the truck stops. The rows of colored truck hoods making patterns in the distance, and reflecting light. It's also one of the few times they all get to disperse, each person wandering around whatever aisle they choose, making phone calls, smoking cigarettes and buying beer and finishing off the supply at the same go. There's a sweet smell of tobacco mixed with beer when they climb back into the vans, unsteady and sated, leg twitches gone and limbs cold.  
  
(The first thing they were told before even starting to pack for tour; first thing they were told before even knowing there  _would_  be a tour. Rule number one of sharing a car or van with Andy Hurley is Do Not Smoke. Rule number two, is Do Not Drink. And unsurprisingly enough, rule number three is Do Not Under Any Circumstances Do Both At The Same Time.  
  
"It's not that Andy has a problem with drinking and smoking per se," Patrick had said, weighing his words carefully. "It's just that, those factors aren't very conducive to a productive and nurturing environment, and only add to the inherent stress of traveling." He pauses. "His words."  
  
"And if your second hand smoke messes with Patrick's voice, I will punch you in the face," Pete added casually, broad smile in place.  
  
Joe had nodded along, "It's true, he will.")  
  
These are the nights Jon sleeps the best, the cold and barren parking lots a reminder of what's inside the vans, and what's not. If there was only one thing Jon could take back with him once they went home, it would probably be this.  
  
"I am not giving you any of my wrap, so quit it with the puppy eyes," Jon says, taking another bite of his Mediterranean wrap. "I am immune." He grins widely, not even trying to hide any food that might still be visible in his mouth.  
  
Tom snorts, and snaps a polaroid of Jon's expression. "You are three things," he says, detaching the undeveloped picture from the camera. "Mistaken, disgusting, under false impressions." He raises his eyebrows, and lights a cigarette, pouting as he breathes through the filter. Jon stretches out his legs, and leans back against the slippery surface of the van. He not so accidentally bumps Tom's shin with his chucks. They're almost soaked through from all the piles of snow he hasn't been able to resist stepping in and flattening into different shapes.  
  
"You're more disgusting for taking a picture of my half chewed food," Jon says and sticks out his tongue after swallowing.  
  
"It's for my collage piece, the one called 'How Jon Walker Manages To Be Disgusting and Ridiculously Pretty All At The Same Time'," he says and smirks.  
  
Jon just chuckles. "I am honored that your first polaroid of a brand new pack will be of me being disgusting."  
  
"You should be. That wrap really does look good, though," Tom says and comfortably shuffles into the vee of Jon's legs. Tom's nose is starting to get red, and the skin around his nose ring looks irritated. He licks his lips, leans in, and licks Jon's as well. "I'm sure it tastes great," Tom says, still so close Jon can feel his lips move against his own.  
  
"It does," Jon says, and leans back, taking Tom's cigarette and handing him the wrap instead.  
  
There's laughing and coughing in the distance, and someone at the edge of Jon's vision. The truckers don't seem to be paying attention to them. He smiles politely around his cigarette, just in case. Tom fidgets and turns around, takes a few steps back, attempting an aloof posture as he chews on a slice of tomato.  
  
  
  
.  
  
  
  
The car sputters and wheezes as if it were in the process of having an asthma attack, mechanical lungs thick with rust, and metal edges rubbing against each other in all the wrong ways. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Mikey mutters frantically, as his knuckles whiten, grip tight around the steering wheel. Jon can't see much from where he's sitting, but it doesn't take much to guess that the frown lines are set deep in Mikey's face.  
  
"Why is the car neighing?" Tom asks, before blowing a bubble and flipping the page in his magazine. "It's making it kind of hard to think." Jon rolls his eyes, and nails Tom in the forehead with a half empty pack of gum.  
  
"Cut out the verbal abuse, just pull over, okay," Nick says, glaring at Tom in the rear view mirror. The car halts suddenly, making all the loose items in the van shift, including Jon and Tom who topple over, landing on an opened bag of chips.  
  
"I guess this is as good a time as any to take a piss break, huh?" Tom climbs out of the van, and disappears into the trees lining the edge of the road. It's only a matter of minutes before the van Pete's driving catches up, slowing down from far away.  
  
"Hey, so, do we know anyone in Pittsburgh?" Nick shouts questioningly when Pete steps out onto the concrete.  
  
  
  
.  
  
  
  
"I say fuck repairs. Flying down to Mexico with the rest of the cash is probably cheaper anyway." Mikey lights his cigarette, legs flat against the cement and back flat against the front tire.  
  
"I'd rather not pay to look like a lobster, thanks," Patrick says, still hidden behind the hood of the car. He pokes one of the containers with a metal rod, and Jon can't help but wonder if maybe they should all be backing away slowly from the van instead of poking around the dangerous liquid department.  
  
"It's fine, we'll just have to like, not take breaks. I have a stealthy bladder. We can drive non-stop after Pittsburgh. And we've got some merch money, it'll be fine, right?" Joe asks, voice getting higher and more strained with each word, his elastic mouth stretched out lopsidedly.  
  
"We'll be fine," Andy says firmly. He's saying it to all of them, looking at all of their faces. Well, all their faces and Pete's camera.  
  
"Why don't you tell those watching at home what's going on?" Pete says, and zooms in and out on Mikey's face. Mikey gives him the finger, and Pete spins around, turning and focusing the camera on Nick. "Back to you, Nick!"  
  
"There's room for us all in one van. We just have to. Not get pulled over," Nick says, not looking into the camera. Pete continues to zoom in on everyone's faces, and Jon can't help biting his lip when it's turned on him.  
  
Mikey snorts. "I thought the whole point of this was more space."  
  
"It's a few hours tops," Andy says, folding one of the road maps they'd brought along. "As for picking places for cars to die, you picked a good one."  
  
"We could maybe get a discount if we offer the mechanic tickets to our Pittsburgh show?" Jon asks, tentatively. Mikey moves for the first time since he sat down, eyes glued to the tree trunks across the road.  
  
"Yes, because we really have that much authority. Watch out for Fall Out Boy and Five Oh Fouuur, making money useless one ticket bribe at a time." Mikey's voice is flat, and he flicks his barely smoked cigarette to the ground.  
  
"It's a good idea," Andy says warmly, looking at Jon from behind the hood of the van.  
  
"You guys should probably get all our valuables moved into the not dead van," Patrick says while pushing back the hood in place. "We should probably be on time for the sound check."  
  
  
.  
  
  
  
In order to not fuck over their existing budget completely, they can only get one room. There's three to each bed, and two will have to sleep on the wall-to-wall carpet. No one complains out loud, but then again, no one has to.  
  
Nick retreats to his sketchpad when he's not behind his drum kit, drawing meticulous shirt designs. All sarcastic and cynical; all for Fall Out Boy. Mikey makes it his mission to buy them all as many drinks as he can, even sending shots of vodka in Andy and Patrick's direction.  
  
A red plastic cup finds its way into Jon's hands and stays there all night, magically refilling itself without Jon noticing. Joe is the only person that doesn't disappear from his line of vision for more than five minutes at a time, so he's the one Jon sticks to. He doesn't really know how Joe dares to smoke inside the club – even if they are backstage – but he doesn't turn down the hand rolled cigarette when offered. It doesn't take much for Joe's face to go blank, all the electricity his bones seem to possess while on stage dissipating with every exhale. It's hard to watch when you can't make yourself feel the same, and Jon decides to visit the parking lot when Joe's lap gets occupied by a girl who works at the club.  
  
The air is more stale than it is cold; there's no wind, just dense particles of dust and smoke and breath dispersing slowly. "Almost done," Jon says to the air around him, and leans against a railing enclosing the parking lot. His mouth is getting dry, air stinging his lungs, but he doesn't want to go back to the motel just yet. "Almost. Almost. Almost." He repeats it, rolling the word in his mouth, clenching the muscles in his face together. The word doesn't taste like anything; doesn't tell him anything.   
  
"Hey!" Jon looks up to find Tom across the street, camera in hand. Something like a sign. He digs his feet into a pile of snow, and licks his lips, waiting for Tom to cross the street.  
  
"Did you take pictures?" Tom's hair is in his face, tips almost level with his eyes. Jon's own hair is probably just as long, if not longer, they had both cut it just before they left. A Supercuts investment.   
  
Tom shakes his head."Nothing worth 'membering, nothing worth wasting a picture on," Tom slurs around the cigarette in his mouth. "Every buck fifty counts," Tom says, thumb wearing a circle into the plastic shell of the camera. He sucks on the cigarette filter, and lets a cloud of smoke blowing into Jon's face when he exhales.   
  
He wants to brush the hair out of Tom's face, and touch his cheek. It should be easy to do, but his the inside of his head is swimming and his shoulders are stiff, holding him in place. If he moved now he might go too far. It's dangerous to show how much you want something. Instead Jon watches the circling of Tom's thumb, waits for the gray cloud to disappear. He says, "We'll be back in Chicago soon."  
  
Tom sucks in a breath, sighs. "Yeah."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
  
.  
  
  
  
A long stripe of light forms on the floor as the door opens silently, Andy padding into the room, blocking the brightness momentarily. The light disappears and the door is clicked shut, and Jon can hear Andy kicking off his shoes, the fabric of his t-shirt bunching as it hits the floor. Beer usually makes him fall asleep faster, but the pot he bummed from Joe isn't mixing well. Jon inches closer towards the edge of the bed, trying not to push Joe off, or kick his face, leaving an empty space for Andy.   
  
"The blonde?" Jon asks, and Andy stills for a moment. He shakes his head, folds his glasses. "The redhead." Jon makes an understanding noise, and tries to remember which one the redhead was. The girl with the tattoo? Or the guy with the freckles?   
  
"Should've stayed with her. Him. Whatever," Jon says, and shivers under the floral patterned sheet.  
  
Jon can smell the mixture of beer and pot on his own breath: musky; and he can see faint lines in Andy's face. Jon knows he must smell drunk, and he probably looks drunk, even in the dark, but Andy doesn't move away, just turns his head toward him. The pleasant buzz from earlier has settled in his head and chest, along with the cold from his toes that has spread and won't go away. He doesn't know what he's doing anymore. "I don't know what we're doing. What I'm doing."  
  
Andy reaches over, placing the heel of his palm on Jon's chest, pressing him down, dipping him a little deeper into the thin mattress. Jon's eyes are glistening in the dark, half open and watery.  
  
"Sleep. Okay?" Jon takes a deep breath, his breastplate pushing against Andy's palm. He nods. "Okay. And stay away from Joe's stash, nothing good has ever come from that." Joe's heel hits Jon's nose, Jon falls asleep wedged between the fabric of Joe's socks and Andy's bare shoulder digging into his arm.  
  
  
.  
  
  
  
Someone forgot to pull the window curtains shut, and light invades the room until Jon opens his eyes. Closing them seems to wake him up completely, pricks of bright colors and light visible even when Jon shuts his eyes tightly.   
  
The restaurant isn't open yet, which, considering it's ten am on a Wednesday, is an indication of how undeserved the receptionist's all capital letters 'concierge' tag is. The guy points Jon in the direction of some vending machines, and hands him a stack of brochures. A weak  _Enjoy your stay,_  and raised eyebrow seeing him off.  
  
Jon weeds through the thick stack of papers, looking for any the religious propaganda he can stuff between the pages of Pete and Nick's porn. The only things that catch his eye are brochures advertising the greatness of the Pennsylvania colleges, splotches of color among the glossy white and black papers.   
  
  
.  
  
  
  
Andy's the only one up when Jon gets back to the room, he's staring at the ceiling, arms crossed behind his head.  
  
"Breakfast straight from the vending machine for you," Jon says, dumping fistfuls of candy and chips bags on his bed. A pack of sour patch kids lands in Joe's open mouth; he stays asleep.  
  
"Hey, so. I was talking to Patrick and it doesn't sound like the car will be ready until tonight, like at the earliest. So like, unless you've got some other sort of brilliant plan for today if maybe --"   
  
"We can't take the van," Andy says, and bites into a Twizzler.   
  
Andy's not wearing his glasses or a shirt yet, and he has shaved. It's different. Chin smooth, save for the tiny round piercing, eyes clear and unframed. "No, I know. I uh, talked to the front desk, there's a bus we can take." Andy raises an eyebrow at that, finishing the bottle of V8 Jon had brought with. His Adam's apple bobs with the swallow, and he wipes his mouth with his arm, lips reddening from the friction. "Hah, yeah, uh. I needed an aspirin and I walked away with a five year plan." He cringes at his statement, but Andy's too preoccupied with straightening out his candy wrapper, folding it into a neat square.  
  
"Okay," Andy says quietly, and Jon smiles. Andy's lips move again, and Jon leans in, to hear better, to tell Andy to repeat what he said. The action's familiar and easy, and before Jon knows it he's kissing him, and it's not so familiar anymore.   
  
"We should find a laundromat too. Save some time from the next stop." Jon nods, and waits for Andy to ask where they're going. Instead he says, “I think I've got a few aspirin to spare, if you still need it.”  
  
  
.  
  
  
  
Within five minutes of stepping onto campus Andy gets into an argument with someone handing out flyers about the ethics involved in wearing fur. He then goes on to reading through the notice boards as a way of determining what kind of people attend the college. He gets and RA to let them into a dorm under very false pretenses (“My girlfriend found us having sex and she seriously just, threw out all my clothes. Like all of them. She killed my stereo, too.” He lies very well.) It steals Jon's thunder just the tiniest bit.  
  
There is absolutely nothing exciting or educational about the laundry room. If anything, it's a little cleaner than others, and has more stray detergent boxes lying around, owner absent. The machines spin just as fast, and the lighting is just as tranquilizing like getting hypnotized by the whirring of the washing machine. Jon starts drumming on the dryers until Andy shoots him a glance from where he's sitting, leafing through the free copy of Times magazine someone handed to him. He goes back to nodding his head to the beat of whatever he's listening to on his ipod, and Jon sits down next to him.   
  
"The dorms look nice," he says, and clears his throat. Andy just hums in return, agreeing, and flips another page. “A little too easy to break into, perhaps.”  
  
"Break ins are part of the college experience. You'll only get filtered information from peeking into dorm rooms though. We can swing by the admissions office before we go, ask them about the available programs. Music scholarships might be of benefit too, you have to know what you're – "  
  
This time Jon leans in deliberately, tilting his chin up so his nose doesn't collide with Andy's glasses, or knocks them into his face. His lips slide over Andy's, and he pushes until Andy's head hits the wall behind them. Andy's steady against him; solid and warm, and unconcerned by what's going on. He doesn't let go of his magazine, or push back, but his tongue's there, licking Jon's lips, and pushing against his front teeth.   
  
Jon gets more attentive the longer the kiss lasts relaxing into it. As his nose presses into Andy's cheek he thinks he can hear the drums from Andy's headphones, and it feels like his pulse points have moved to the tips of his ears and the space beneath his fingernails. When Jon lets go, he stares at the corner of Andy's mouth and says, "I know."  
  
Jon can see Andy putting his magazine aside from the corner of his eye, and he leans in so Jon has to look him. Andy's face is calm and steady, and Andy leans in, hand cupping the back of Jon's head and firm lips kissing his.   
  
It's sloppy, and Jon leans into it, only stopping to rest his forehead against Andy's when his jeans are unbuttoned and a hand presses down against his dick. Andy licks the skin beneath Jon's jaw. A lick down to the collar of Jon's shirt followed by more pressure and friction against his dick. The weight disappears, and Jon swallows when he notices Andy licking his hand. The the pressure returns, but now it's damp skin instead of cotton causing friction.  
  
Andy's fingers tighten their grip when Jon spreads his legs involuntarily. The strokes are irregular, and Jon thinks he might be whimpering, but he can't really focus on anything other than the slick fingers stroking his cock and Andy's mouth making patterns at the nape of his neck.   
  
Jon lets his head lean against the wall, one hand touching the warm skin at the small of Andy's back. He gasps when Andy stops nibbling on his collarbone, and his fingers smoothly tighten their grip, the stroking going almost unbearably slow. The bare skin on Jon's abdomen prickles, and he opens his eyes just in time to notice Andy looking at him intently, tongue sticking out a little. It's too intense, looking at Andy looking at him, so Jon rests his head in the crook of his neck. Jon comes then, a muffled groan overpowering the sound of the washers as he feels Andy's muscles working.   
  
  
.  
  
  
  
Tom and Nick are drunk when they pile into the van, and Mikey's well on his way. "Cheers," Nick says and laughs as he drinks from the bottle Mikey's been holding to. It's not doing a very good job of passing for Sprite. Mikey holds it out in Jon's direction. He shakes his head in reply, looking at Andy's reflection in the rear view mirror: acting oblivious, but face muscles tight under his skin. Andy's labret piercing protrudes more than usual under his bitten lip.   
  
Andy stays that way until they've picked up the other van, and stays in the car until Joe drives off with Tom, Nick and Mikey sandwiched in the back. Damaged car going first, just in case it breaks down again.   
  
Pete and Patrick take the back; it's their turn to sleep comfortably. There's more noise coming from the back than there should be from people that are sleeping; shuffling, and what sounds like swatting. "Is that a coin roll in your pants or are you just happy to see me?" Pete says, not so suggestively.   
  
"Isn't that my line?" Patrick says sounding unfazed.   
  
"If you're not gonna sleep you can come up here and drive. You can banter while doing that, seriously," Andy says.   
  
"Hey, you know what I always say, what happens in the back of the van stays in the back of the van." Pete wriggles his eyebrows, Andy stares. A dull sound of soft vocals erupt from Patrick's headphones, and Pete laughs softly at Andy's glare when taking the earbud Patrick's offering. "Night," he says, before lying down and stealing some of Patrick's felt blanket. Patrick grunts in reply, but just buries himself further under the patch he has.   
  
The lean line of Andy's arm on the steering wheel, streetlights and shadows making the tattoos change color and shape, the tiny hairs looking symmetrical like they were part of the designs to begin with. Jon leans back in his seat, props his feet onto the dashboard and just watches Andy's hands move on the steering wheel.   
  
  
.  
  
  
  
There's a bruise on Jon's leg when he wakes up, and someone lying on it. The weight is familiar, but the shape isn't, and it takes him a while to realize that it's Andy's bent knee pressing down on his thigh. He doesn't even remember how he got it. Probably from last night's show – the last show; Tom had spun twice and the neck of his guitar collided with Jon both times. It hadn't even happened very quickly.  
  
He needs to pee, but he can hear the van moving, and the next stop probably won't be until long. His fingers tangle into Andy's hair, and he listens to the sound of Pete's yo-yo rhythmically hitting the wall until he falls asleep again.   
  
  
.  
  
  
In Chicago, snow lines the edge of the road. Patrick and Pete are silent in the front, still sedate after saying goodbye to the others. If Jon cranes his neck, he can make out the van in front of them, switching lanes and speeding up.   
  
When Pete gets off with Patrick, their guitar cases and shoulders bumping together as they walk down the street. They've only taken a few steps when it looks like they're laughing, and Patrick's mitten clad fist hits Pete's shoulder.   
  
”So.” Jon lets out a breath, seatbealt's unfastened, earbuds in ears and bag in his lap. He checks the dashboard compartmen one last time, and huffs out a breath. Andy tips his head, and presses a kiss to Jon's forehead, grazing his hairline.   
  
Jon hoists his overfilled backpack onto his shoulder, and turns up the volume on his ipod, but he can still hear the van driving away, skidding a little over a frozen puddle.


End file.
